


days til we're together

by poetjasmi (orphan_account)



Series: court·ing & ro·mance [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 01:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10233101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/poetjasmi
Summary: "He didn't expect Keith's voice to sound like the grains of sand itself but Lance isn't so surprised to turn around and be met by eyes so dark, he's startled by the reflections of stars in them."Lance and Keith get together, nothing else to it.





	

**one**   

Lance knows better than to point out a newcomer but he sits across the aisle, boots drawn up to his mid thigh and it sticks to his skin much like the ugly eyeshadow his brother painted above his eye with a flick here and a dash there. Uncomfort seeps through his pores and, though he looks gorgeous—from the stares of eyes that cannot seem to look anywhere else but at him, he knows—his stomach cannot resist growling at every opportune moment. He is silly enough to press his hand against his mesh-covered skin, looks ashamed when he stares at the tip of sunshine yellow shoes and feels the ends of his ears turn hot.   

He knows he looks good from those eyes.  

Newcomers arrive only so often on the train. The train takes any city dweller anywhere _from_ anywhere, but he's lived in this town for long enough to know someone's out of place. 

And he knows he looks good from violet eyes that have either resigned themselves to staring out of awe or out of disgust. 

Either way, no one stares for that long and doesn't like what they see. 

**two**

Violet eyes? 

Lance mulls this over. Too many times to count. 

He's met people plenty of times with eyes that are so green they are like overconcentrated bowls of jello and eyes blue enough to compete with the sky for miles but violet is never a color he's encountered in his life. 

Swirling clusters of hazel or brown eyes that turn slightly gray at the right moment but never violet eyes so dark and nearly blue. 

He nearly mistook them for blue but at second glance, another peep at his eyes, he realized. 

Violet. 

What a strange color. 

**three**

Lance didn't bother to fight his brother on the eye shadow today. Hearing repeatedly that you'd look better with a touch of this and a smidgen of that can really wear down a man's defenses (of which Lance had none). 

Violet eyes, as Lance so cleverly refers to him every day he sees him on public transit, has moved closer and closer across the bench for the past couple of days.

Lance knows he looks good. Even on a shitty day, he somehow finessed enough confidence (and maybe his brother's cosmetic skills are actually worth a damn) to move a boy from God knows where all the way in front of him, sitting with his legs fully extended out and his bags in the seat next to him. 

**four**

He's beyond pissed and he's beyond exhausted. And violet eyes doesn't sit across from where he stands on the train today which stings somewhere deep in his chest. 

Though nothing Lance does will ever be for a stranger with violet eyes and too many snapbacks to spare, he was starting to internally warm up to that one. He had yet to toss him a smile before Violet eyes wandered away to be across from someone else, some _place_  else on another train far away from where Lance could feel good about an outsider's eye on him. 

He had dressed pretty for Monday too. 

**five**

He caught a glimpse of him in a store and that was enough to make Lance stop in his tracks, turn around and waltz into a gelato store. Chocolate brown walls make up the confines of the shop and, of course, it's a tiny place, meaning once Lance walks in he's affronted with violet eyes attached to a body he has actually paid very little regard to. What a mistake. 

Violet eyes, otherwise known as Keith according to the name tag, is decidedly better than average looking even in a fancy apron and a fancy gelato scooper to go along with it. 

Keith doesn't say hello but stares at whatever Lance is wearing (he had even forgotten the rather risque ensemble composed of only a long tee shirt and shoes). Lance would make a "my eyes are up here" joke but he's not five and Keith is not acquainted enough to know to laugh at such simple humor. 

But he buys his gelato that he hadn't meant to buy, exchanging less than five words at maximum, and he leaves carting around more bags than he can manage. 

**six**

Summertime is Lance's favorite time. Not only because he's far away from the Garrison but because he's at home amongst a scene of teenagers who have nothing to do other than work all day and get trashed all night. 

He does very little trashing but, when he's invited by a burly guy named Hunk to the beach along with some other school associates looking to cook up some leftover, nearly bad, meat from the little butchery down the road, he doesn't decline. 

Should there be alcohol, he'll attempt to decline but he can't promise to his brother that he wouldn't come back to the apartment slightly inebriated. 

His brother rolled his eyes and helped him put pins in his hair. 

There's a possibility Keith could be there.  

Lance isn't getting dressed up for him, though. Absolutely not, he laughs in the mirror. Absolutely not.

**seven**

When he checks his phone, it is well after midnight. He can only think about his mother miles upon miles away, lying in her bed staring at a white ceiling that could swallow her whole if she let it. Last time he talked to her, she said she was forgetting to take her insomnia pills though he isn't sure how someone can forget to do something like that especially when they are in the midst of lying dreadfully awake. 

He doesn't question it. 

Thoughts are scrambled by partygoers. The music is no longer registering. The liquor isn't good and the meat was decent enough to swallow. Lance isn't willing to pass up free meals just yet even if it leads him to stand in the middle of a sandy beach and forget why he even exists in front of a black sky. 

"Your shoes will get messy if you stand so close to the waves." He didn't expect Keith's voice to sound like the grains of sand itself but Lance isn't so surprised to turn around and be met by eyes so dark, he's startled by the reflections of stars in them. 

Maybe he stared for too long or maybe he stares for just long enough but Keith grabs ahold of his sweaty skin. Keith is laughing but sweetly, whispering, "How drunk did you get?"  

Lance doesn't give a reply because he can't find words exclamatory enough to express his real lack of cognizance. 

They don't talk for awhile. Long enough for Lance to know they have walked away from the ocean and settling into a relaxed step.

**eight**

His brother is still upset from last night when Lance stumbled in wearing clothes that didn't belong to him and lipstick wiped off his lips hazardously. 

Lance might be getting the silent treatment from across the room while they gorge themselves with Lance's version of an apology (Chinese takeout) but he feels only so sorry because the long black tee he wears smells like Lipton peach tea, wind captured when you take the backseat to a motorcycle ride, too many missed opportunities, and a friendship in the making. 

Lance digs his nose into the collar when they put in an Audrey Hepburn movie for the night. 

**nine**

"It looks better on you. Keep it."

**ten**

"I never caught your name?" 

"I never threw it." 

Lance decides in that moment that he likes it when Keith is taken aback. 

"It's Lance," he says in a moment after a pause and giggles when Keith takes a relieved deep breath. 

"I thought you weren't going to tell me."

"I wasn't."

**eleven**

His mother calls him while he's on the train. "Hello, this is Lance." It's all mundane but, of course, _of course_ , Keith is right there listening to him shuffle his feet around so leather on leather shoes squeak on the floor. He smiles in his direction, snagging onto the cute upward curl of Keith's lips. He's barely listening, too focused on not focusing, until he's hearing something about depression and anxiety and postpartum and, by that point, he's listening in. He knows what this means. 

He's panicking which is funny because his mother is serene through this whole exchange. Murmuring even that she's not on the verge of killing herself, that she didn't wait this time till it got that bad, and he's wishing she hadn't called him while he stood in leather shoes on a loud train in a mini skirt across from a boy whose shirt he stole and has worn to bed for the past two days.  

Keith looks at him across the train but it is misery where Lance is at currently: discussing the pros and cons of a therapist on public transit. 

**twelve**

Lance decides to splurge and grab a few ounces of gelato. His day went to shit when his father called him, asking about his mother in that tone his father can't resist using when talking about her. Like he wasn't once in love with her and all her whirlwind issues. His day went from shit to _dog_ shit, however, when his brother stole his pink floral shoes. 

He was stuck wearing regular ass tennis shoes as it was the only think that would go with his outfit. 

"No heels?" 

The headphones in his ears cancel out Keith's unorthodox greeting but he interprets it like swimmers tear apart words underwater. 

"No heels today."

"Any reason?" He hands over Lance's gelato without being asked. Lance has only been here maybe two times before but he likes that Keith already makes assumptions about his love of dark chocolate gelato (he can't go a week without dark chocolate anything) and Lance can't help but feel his chest ache sweetly because he's a fan of symbiotic relationships. And possibly likes it too much when Keith's fingers linger on his. 

"The only heels that go with this dress are currently being used." His face scrunches up into the sourest face he can muster because even the mention of sharing such personal things disgusts the hell out of him. Keith laughs. 

"If it makes you feel any better, you look really good in it."

Lance smiles. Pays. Leaves. Feels good about what has just transpired and can't wait to talk to his horrible brother about someone he doesn't know yet but would love to. 

**thirteen**

Somehow, they have never talked on the train but only shared wary looks. 

Lance likes the distance and decides to keep it as he's never talked to anyone on the train _worth_ talking to anyway. And Keith is surely worth it. 

**fourteen**

"Here we are again."

"Yup." 

Silence shrouds them as they stare out at the lighthouse from the edge of the water. Lance has taken to abandoning the bonfires and settling down on the sand so his shorts are soaked and his hands are scratched raw. It's quiet where he chooses to sit and he has never expected anyone to come searching for him but this is the second time Keith has found him. 

He's starting to think Keith's following him on purpose. 

"Who invites you to these things?" Lance never once looks over at Keith but he knows his head is cocked to the side and he's watching Lance intently, probably surveying his outfit of the day like he hadn't seen it on the train and hadn't looked amazed at all that skin on display. 

Keith always acts like he's brand new to Lance's debauchery. Every day for these past two weeks, it's like he can't believe Lance, that boy from the train, could outdo himself.  

When Lance finally does turn his head, he is hit by the smell of sulfur and chocolate. "I'll tell you if you tell me they're making smores over there."

"They are."

"Hunk invites me."

Lance doesn't move to get up so Keith must take it as an invitation to sit down next to him, gaze up at the stars with him and wonder about where they'll be tomorrow when the day is just as hot as today and summer keeps burning deep in their chests. 

"Come back to my place with me again?" It's a question and, though Lance likes a boy who says what he means, he likes this too. This soft gentle boy who doesn't push too hard, who looks down at their hands next to each other and questions his place in Lance's world. 

"Only if we grab some smores on the way out."

**fifteen**

This time, Lance takes one of Keith's jackets. When he sniffs it, it smells like the meat pie they ate in the middle of the night and the seagulls they watched from a park bench near the beach pier.  

They walk down the streets together early in the morning and it's almost magical how empty the streets are, how warm the air is and how polite Keith is to hand over his one and only jacket just to stop the shivers that wreck havoc over Lance's body when the temperature drops. 

They never make it back to Keith's place but they do manage to close the silly distance between their hands. 

"Keep the jacket but bring back my shirt," Keith jokes. 

**sixteen**

It just so happens that Lance does _not_ know Keith's last name despite their sweaty skin touching and the continuous exchange of company for clothes. Keith doesn't know that his parents are divorced despite always looking Lance up and down every time he sees him nor does he know about his mother's depression or that his older sister is several feet under the ground, buried before Lance could ever make amends. 

And the best part about this all?

Lance doesn't have to tell him shit.

**seventeen**

"Where do you work?"

Lance has been waiting for this question. The question "where do you go every day looking like that?"

But the answer is simple and lacks the mystery Keith might have suspected: "I work at the diner down the road."

**eighteen**

Keith is a fish out of water when he walks into Lance's diner still dressed in his work uniform, probably arriving during his lunch break. His hair looks sticky, even from across the room, and his skin is sweaty but it's nothing Lance hasn't seen. 

Amongst the business suits and fancy khakis, Keith breathes fresh air in his direction. 

"How may I help you?"

At this point, violet eyes gazing at him for an indecent amount of time doesn't faze Lance one bit as he now has learned to crave whatever Keith is willing to give him at this point but, even now, this look is different. 

They both probably don't belong where they currently are and it's exhilarating to exist in each other's company; two fish who don't belong on land. Together. 

"You can help me by taking your break now. Maybe get some coffee for us both." 

Lance cocks an eyebrow. "Are you taking me on a date?" He stands just close enough to Keith to curl a strand of his mullet around his finger.

Mini skirt pulled above mid thigh, Lance is feeling borderline dangerous today. 

Speechlessness arises in Keith's throat and maybe he's coughing because he's surprised or he's covering up the lump lodged in his lungs but he nods, having lost all capacity to speak. 

Lance finds Keith a place to sit, hidden by the fauna so they'll have some semblance of privacy, before nearly skipping (which is a hard feat to accomplish in heels) to the kitchen to order one black coffee and one frappuccino and announce he's taking his lunch break. 

When he returns with all these tasks accomplished, Keith unabashedly looks relieved to see him approaching. "I thought you left or something."

"And leave you here, looking all pretty?" he asks, setting the black coffee in front of Keith. When Keith doesn't immediately drink, he begins explaining. "I didn't know what you liked but black coffee is easy to change. We have creamers and sugars." 

"Good."

"You seemed like a black coffee kinda guy."

The sugar follows the cream and the spoon swirls with the colors until Keith lands on a brown he likes. Tap, _tap_ tapping the spoon against the edge and Keith holds up his cup to his lips, humming into the mixture. "I like it a certain way."

"How's that?" 

"Nice and brown. Something like you."

**nineteen**

Shoes are Lance's single most loved trait about himself. When shorts don't pull through and aren't tight around his waist and the jewelry no longer causes him to _oh_ and _aw_ , at least he has the security of satin and leather and lace shoes.

Falling back on the appeal of another boy's shirt in his grip and the leathery red skirt that does nothing but compliment his favorite pumps, Lance is adorned immediately with the hand of that same boy whose shirt he wears grabbing him by the waist and muttering something about phone numbers needing exchanging. 

He likes knowing that, so early in their acquaintanceship, Lance has the power to break Keith's resolve. 

**twenty**

"Hello?"

Alarm clock blinks 3:51 am at bleary eyes. Lance sifts fingers through his sleepy hair and focuses on staying awake. "Could you repeat everything you just said," he yawns.

His brother is a light sleeper and it's no surprise when he wakes up immediately at the sound of his mother's voice. "Aie, what's she going on about?" Unlike Lance, he's much better at waking up with a functioning body. 

"I don't know."

"Hand over the phone." He does. 

And as a result, his brother leaves next morning to fix problems that have built up like plague on a depressed woman's teeth. 

Nonplussed, they find it's a lot of issues. 

**twenty-one**

Hunk is in love with distractions. Dealing with problems, as he would put it, are for prepared, healthy people and we aren't those folks, Lance. 

It's the one thing Lance wants at this moment. 

His mom isn't dead (yet). His brother just gets to hold her hand as her chronic depression hits her like a tidal wave while he sits miles away, feeling guilty. 

"Why don't you go fuck with that Keith kid? You like him," Hunk addresses Keith with a nod of his chin, almost waving him over.

When Keith arrives in their alcove of the beach, Hunk leaves, faking some bullshit excuse about finding Shay ("Fuck you." Hunk whispers back, "No, fuck _Keith_."). Lance is red in the face. 

"Mind if I take his seat?" 

"'Course not."

Keith surveys him. "You aren't drunk, are you?" Lance shakes his head. "Well, you aren't looking too good right now. Do you want me to take you home?"

Home is now barren without his brother's presence next to him at night or the following morning, as he found out when he woke up cold and his stomach was so full of sorrow he decided to skip out on breakfast. 

So the idea sounded appealing, what can he say. To no longer be alone in an apartment physically built with four hands instead of two, with two different kinds of cereal (because if Lance eats Captain Crunch enough, he starts to question if he's even eaten at all), with two different kinds of throw blankets on the bed because one was "too decorative."

Lance takes Keith home. 

It's no long trek like it was before but they end up at his apartment stoop and, eventually, he cajoles Keith into coming up with him which was a very easy task as Keith was so concerned already with whether Lance could manage an elevator in heels. "I managed to walk all through downtown, sweetie."

"Doesn't matter. Don't want you falling, _sweetie,"_ Keith bites back through there isn't any venom. 

"Careful. You might make me fall in love with you."

Keith leaves after Lance is put to bed in his mismatched room designed for two.

**twenty-two**

Keith hadn't left and apparently took a liking to Captain Crunch.

Lance, unfortunately, finds out while handling a call from his father, stumbling out of sleep, yet again, with a phone in his hand and another cradling his brother's blanket to his chest.

Walking into the kitchen space, he encounters Keith who clearly camped on the sofa in his clothes from yesterday. 

Lance puts a hand on the phone receiver. "You're going to be late for work, you doofus." Not the best opener but Keith isn't fazed. 

"It's an off-day for both of us, _doofus_." 

Lance almost giggles but remembers his father on the line. When he hangs up, he's drained of any mental strength that can be salvaged after a talk like that. 

"All right?"

Keith stands in his kitchen, looking through the refrigerator. He's searching for something but Lance is too exhausted to care.

"Not all right."

Keith hums. Pulls out eggs, jam, butter, Pillsbury biscuits. "Let me make you something to eat and then take you out to make you all right."

Taken aback, Lance clutches the blanket on his shoulders. "What?"

Keith is already laying out a pan and getting a pot filled to boil eggs. He enunciates slowly, "Breakfast. Then date. A real one."

"You slept on my sofa; you must feel terrible, dude."

"Nothing that can't be fixed with a shower and some coffee." Keith takes a second look around Lance's kitchen. "Do you own coffee?" And he sees the array of tea all over the place and mutters, "Of course. Fuck." 

Lance manages to make a black tea latte for Keith that both startles him into full awareness and leaves him looking relaxed as he cooks breakfast. 

"What do you like on your biscuits?" 

He waves his hand at Keith dismissively. "Whatever you want to put on it. I'm not picky."

"You look like a picky eater."

"Look?"

Keith tilts his head, puts warm and fluffy biscuits in front of Lance while beginning to smile. "Yeah. Picky. You look the part."

"Mom didn't raise a fucking punk." Keith laughs as Lance raises the kindly salted eggs into his mouth. A biscuit follows and it melts on his tongue. 

**❀**

"Is it cool if I watch you dress?" Keith stands in the middle of his bedroom in a towel, dripping wet all over the floor. His hair curls as it air dries and Lance is sure that's not meant to be attractive but he likes the look. And the view of Keith's chest. 

"Don't be a pervert." 

Keith doesn't catch the joke and immediately panics. "I didn't mean—I just—"

"Relax, dude. It's fine." His face sprouts red in spots. Lance can't help the upturn of his lips. "Sit down on the bed and watch this magic."

Shoes are always the pinnacle of the outfit and he starts from the bottom to the top, making quick work out of his outfit. An outfit he'll wear to a date with Keith. 

He hadn't thought about the circumstances until now. 

Sexy and sleek seems something Keith would drool over or the classic pretty look Lance has succeeded to make him weak at the knees. 

He's sure anything will make Keith's muscles spasm with an urge to touch. 

Eyes lead him to his strap up heels and he already knows he's going for something maddening today. 

**❀**

"Have I ever told you how hot you are?"

"Careful, Keith. It might sound like you like me."

**twenty-three**

Morning light streams in from the big window of his apartment and it's sweet that Keith is doing this strange frontal spooning where he's the big spoon and Lance is cuddled into his chest. 

"How long have you been awake?" he mutters into Keith's collarbones and feels the contrast of his warm breath against cold skin causing the body around him to hold him closer. 

"Long enough to watch you wake up." 

Limbs stretch and Lance can't help but ask on a yawn, "Did you like what you saw?"

"Always."

**twenty-four**

Keith has taken up temporary residence at Lance's apartment and it's becoming no secret how many shoes Lance has. 

"The first pair was nice."

"Nice?" 

Keith huffs. "Okay, sexy." 

"Like, how sexy?" Lance is tentative to ask but he likes it when Keith finds the words, melts them on his tongue and supersaturates him with compliments. 

"Like I want to touch your ass sexy." 

Lance hums, "Too bad you never bother."

**twenty-five**

_lunch break time?_ he texts as the diner dwindles to a slower flow of last-minute lunch grabbers. _no one called me pretty today and im craving attention_. 

His phone rings. 

"Hello?"

"You're pretty."

"Keith, compliments are meant to be uncalled for. Shocking. Given at a moment's notice. You're being a bad friend. Try again."

"If you look the same way you did when you left the apartment, I'll bring you gelato." 

"Now we're talking, babe." 

**twenty-six**

Lance doesn't know what to call his relationship with Keith. It's been a few days of sharing the same bed and, every day, getting the privilege to touch Keith. He's a nice boy who comes home before Lance and cooks noodles like no body's business.

He brings Lance gelato at a moment's notice. 

He sits in on Lance's calls with his brother and catches the tears with his hands. 

Lance can't promise anything but he can promise that he's not going to come out this unmarred by Keith's dazzling consideration. 

**twenty-seven**

"Mail my stuff back home. There isn't any point in me coming back." Summer's almost up and his brother is right but it still makes him cry when he says it so bluntly like that. His brother sighs. "Don't cry, please. It wouldn't make sense to come back just to fly back home, y'know?"

He sobs, "I know." He knows. 

He hates knowing Keith's going to pull him into his lap and rock back and forth. He's weak. This is a weak situation. 

**twenty-eight**

"I talked to my landlord. I don't have much stuff to move over here except the rest of my clothes and school shit." 

**twenty-nine**

They aren't moving in together. It's for convenience. School's going to start soon and it's more about finances than anything else. 

But he'd miss Keith's arms around him in the morning and he likes helping Keith fold his few clothes up into Lance's closet. 

**thirty**

"Are we ever going to kiss?"

On the edge of sleep, a whisper penetrates the paralysis. The most Lance can give as an answer is to move closer to Keith like he's about to crawl into his skin and whisper back, "Whenever you're ready."

Keith does not wear much to bed which should not have surprised Lance whatsoever. He's a muscular guy with a body that hardly needs clothes obscuring the view. 

He drags his nails over Keith's exposed chest, waking up slowly but surely and thrilled when Keith shivers a little when Lance messes with his belly button. "Are you ticklish?" 

He feels the hefty sigh reverberate through Keith. "I'm trying to build up a moment." 

"Then do it, lover boy."

Keith doesn't waste a moment. "I think I've done this all wrong. I accidently moved in and we never talked about our relationship status." He pauses, moves Lance out of his arms so they can be level and he searches him. Searches through him for some answer. "I just want clarification. Am I some weird cuddle buddy and that's it?"

Lance nearly laughs but this is serious. 

"I like you a lot, Keith."

"But, like, how much is a lot?"

Lance considers. Takes the bait. 

Pauses. 

He could say so many things in so many different ways:  

Like the way Keith talks when he's sleepy has seduced him miles more than any view of his half chubs in the morning will. It crawls under his skin, the words burrow into his chest and Lance finds the seeds of affection when Keith's low voice whines for him to move a little closer, a little tighter for a little longer. 

Like the way Keith has unbearably covered his house in succulents. He lied when he said he didn't have many things to bring over. He lied and Lance is dealing dearly with the repercussions of Keith touching each leaf of each plant as he whispers to it softly. 

Like the way Keith dominates a kitchen, never messing around when it comes to arranging salads or sandwiches or anything. Lance hasn't eaten right since his mother was diagnosed but it's like Keith is his own special medicine. 

A cure for infectious sadness. 

"I like you so much it doesn't make sense, Keith."

Keith hums. "Keep talking." His hand crawls down from where it was wrapped safely high around Lance's waist down to his hip, just where the end of Keith's stolen shirt ends. 

"That's warm."

"Keep talking," Keith urges. 

"I like you so much I let you watch me get dressed which is bizarre in its own right, you know," he babbles while a hand does not dare stop. Finds new places to explore, stops at every mole on Lance's skin, every freckle. Fingernails drag across his skin similar to how Lance would tease Keith's chest and he's starting to think this is payback for past touching. "I like you so much I let you use my shower and eat my food." 

"You act like we didn't go grocery shopping today."

Lance ignores him in favor of focusing on Keith lifting himself so his cheek rests on his other hand. "I like you so much I get dressed special for you some days.

I like you so much I let you manipulate me into confessing all my feelings in the middle of the night." 

Keith laughs enough for his cheek to fall off his hand. "That's what I wanted to hear."

His laugh is luscious. It dusts his face with pink if he's amused enough and changes his tone of voice from deep to something indistinguishable. 

Lance doesn't allow himself to dwell on it. He likes the mystery.

"Are you going to kiss me?"

Violet eyes look at him. Swirls of dark blue that are almost black with specks of purple move like cosmos in his iris. 

"Are you?" he urges, desperate.

Keith breathes, "Yeah."

His hand has successfully traveled up Lance's shirt, back to his waist but closer than ever. Keith dips down so his lips are slotted snugly to Lance's and it's chaste for that first moment when it's tentative and this could mean the difference between kissing again and never again. Lance really wants to kiss again. 

But he's stuck where he is. He likes the hand on his waist doing nothing but being sturdy as they touch again and again. It's funny because he's thought about this but Keith never seemed unsure about anything before and, yet, he is here. 

They break from being chaste when Keith pulls away. Touches his forehead to Lance's, discloses something about liking the face he makes after he's kissed. "May I? Again?" He sounds out of breath from mere brushes of the lips. 

Lance touches his cheek and pulls Keith closer to his mouth. Between kisses, he says, "Don't ask." 

Keith doesn't ask when he licks into Lance's mouth nor does he ask when his hand leaves skin in favor of getting on top of Lance. "Is this okay?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Suck my face again."

"Just because you said that I think I wouldn't." He directs his attention to a long neck and finds his favorite buttons to press, explores which one makes Lance keen or squirm.

**thirty-one**

Lance now has jurisdiction to randomly press his lips to the skin under Keith's mullet and that's all that matters. 

**thirty-two**  

Keith likes fantasy films while eating off-brand candy from the supermarket. Watermelon wedges are his favorite along with Pepsi. 

"You know what would complete this whole night?"  

Lance has his hair pinned to the sides and is painting his nails, sitting in between Keith's knees while they watch Keith's whole Lord of the Rings box set. 

Lance turns his head but he never fully takes his eyes off his nails. "What?" 

"If you sat up here." Keith pats his lap. 

Lance's nose crinkles up. "Your breath probably smells like fake Coke. Plus, I'm doing my nails. So no."

"But you look so cute. Come 'ere." 

"No."

"Please?" He feels knees at his back readjust, obviously lowering themselves to the floor where he's at. "Please please please?" Keith kisses his nape. 

"If you mess up my nails, you'll sleep on the floor."

"I wouldn't mess up your nails." For some reason, Keith has a mild infatuation with Lance's waist as his hands always find a way to settle right there under his shirt. "Can I leave marks?"

"Focus on your movie."

Keith touched the pins in Lance's hair. "I can't when you look so cute."

Lance hummed.

"So, can I leave marks?"

"I don't know, _can_ you?"

A mouth connects to Lance's neck and sucks hard enough to make him jump. " _Jesus_ , Keith." Keith moans into his skin and manages to move his thumbs over Lance's bare thighs as he litters kisses on brown shoulders. 

"Sacrilegious pet names aren't my kink, hon."

It takes Lance a second to understand the dumb joke under Keith's ministrations but he laughs regardless, setting the nail polish brush down so he can turn in the lap offered to him. 

"If-"

"If your nails get messed up, I'll sleep on the floor. I know, I know." 

Keith's mouth tastes like sugar. And fake Coke. 

Lance doesn't want anything different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to be infinitely shorter but was made longer for no reason (reason: writing is a coping turned torture technique, that's why).
> 
> While writing, Dive by Ed Sheeran never left my freaking head for a moment's break.
> 
> Edit: I forgot to add that I might do little drabbles while I write this. The next part _is_ going to be longer and I need something to keep me from, ya know, not writing this stuff. So, uh, my tumblr is over [here](http://rebelrumi.tumblr.com/). You'll see an update in a few weeks.
> 
> Edit: Aight, so I have obligations, lol and writing the next part is so very difficult. So you might see an update late April, early May, hopefully (I gotta write some yuri on ice fic and then a voltron birthday fic for my homie).

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be infinitely shorter but was made longer for no reason (reason: writing is a coping turned torture technique, that's why).
> 
> While writing, Dive by Ed Sheeran never left my freaking head for a moment's break.
> 
> Edit: I wrote this almost a year ago (I think?) and I had a bad habit of getting ahead of myself. This story here isn’t going to get a continuation and it isn’t getting any fics to go along with it. I like it as it is. I appreciate the love it has gotten and will, of course, continue writing. I think the idea in my head was too vague _and_ I didn’t write the whole fic before posting this chapter. But anyway.


End file.
